


till death do us part (perhaps not even then)

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Everything else remains, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Modern AU to bypass same-sex marriage taboo in 1920s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24125791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: “What the fuck, Tommy?” Alfie squinted at the ring in his palm.Tommy shrugged. “What does it look like?”“I don’t know, fucking attempted murder?”“If I wanted you dead, Alfie, I’d do better than an attempt."In which Tommy proposes to Alfie, they marry, and some snap-shots of their Ever After.Officially completed.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 71
Kudos: 203





	1. Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can't get this out of my head.
> 
> Update: This has turned into a series of snapshots of Tommy and Alfie's married lives! I am keeping it marked 'completed' as each entry is pretty standalone and any updates are dependent on prompts and inspirations!
> 
> Update 2: Made a fanart of Tommy/Alfie in a modern AU setting. Thought I'd add it here for fun :D
> 
> **Update 3: This series is officially completed with 9 chapters.**

Their relationship was built on proposals—of business, fucking, and more of business. Neither of them thought it'd lead to one of marriage, yet here they were.

Naturally, Tommy was so fucking coy about it that Alfie wasn't sure what the hell he was asking until he almost choked on a ring in his drink like some god-awful cliché, and even then Alfie was half doubtful at best.

It wasn’t exactly convincing, with Tommy doing this in Alfie’s office after they’d discussed details of mutual benefits in varying degrees of abandon, after they’d shaken on the deal and, most importantly, after they’d fucked against Alfie’s desk.

“What the fuck, Tom?” Alfie squinted at the ring in his palm that was _this_ close to being his cause of death.

Tommy flicked his lighter and held the flame to the cigarette between his lips. Lips that were still pink and raw from rubbing against Alfie’s cock. “What does it look like?”

“I don’t know, fucking attempted murder?”

“If I wanted you dead, Alfie, I’d do better than an attempt.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Marry me.”

“Yeah, _definitely_ fuck off, mate.”

Tommy plucked the ring from Alfie’s palm. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he got down to one knee. Alfie could only stare with his mouth agape like a moron, because the only times Tommy got anywhere that low was to take Alfie’s cock down his throat and suck him to fucking nirvana with the sheer glory of his mouth, but now he was doing it for a reason less salacious, and it was _fucking weird._

In all the best ways.

“Alfie Solomons,” Tommy said, holding up the ring, a smirk toying at the corners of his lips, “will you marry me?”

Alfie stared at him. The punchline would come any moment now.

It didn’t.

Well, they _had_ spoken about this—getting married. Or _vaguely alluded_ to it. While drunk (and high, probably). In the back of Tommy’s car.

But Tommy was Tommy and he had a way of bending every suggestion to a decision. And not in a dubious-consent sort of way, more of a ‘say yes because I’m Tommy Shelby and that’s the only reason you’ll ever need’ sort of way.

Still, that didn’t mean it’d been _discussed_.

This was unreal. And weird. And fucking _fantastic._

“You’re serious, Tom.”

Tommy was still on his knee. “Alfie, just say yes.”

Alfie broke into a grin, because fuck it. They’d seen and done it all. Gangsters at each other’s throats, first with a switchblade, then with their teeth and mouth and tongue. And then the fucking had begun. Oh, it’d felt _good_. Being inside Tommy. Tommy’s cock up his arse. Seeing, hearing, swallowing Tommy’s orgasm like the gift from God it was.

They fit well, and not just in bed.

Then, before Alfie knew it, they’d started seeing each other for reasons outside of business or fucking. Things went off the rails from there and Alfie was all too happy to be along for the ride of his life.

So, why the fuck not?

“Yes. Fucking _yes_ ,” Alfie said, laughing.

“Good.” Tommy slipped the ring on Alfie’s finger. He rose to full height and kissed Alfie on the lips.

“We’re eloping though, because I’m not having Arthur fucking Shelby screw up my wedding, mate. You fucking know he would, Tommy.”

Tommy shrugged. “I suppose they’ll live.”

Good Lord. Was Tommy Shelby putting his family second?

Alfie grinned. “You really do fucking love me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy said and kissed him again. “You’re ruining the moment.”

“Mhmm,” Alfie mumbled against Tommy’s mouth. “That’s all right. We have the rest of our lives, don’t we?”


	2. Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie's elopement ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I decided to add a second (and last) chapter, because I had a surge of inspiration. I hope you like it!
> 
> Shout-out to @keine-angst for helping me with their vows.

It had been a full ten minutes since Tommy had let himself into Ada’s house. He was now smoking in her sitting room, and the twist of her mouth and her crossed arms were more than enough for Tommy to know her patience was running thin.

“Tommy, just fucking out with it.” Ada’s voice pierced through the prolonged silence that neither of them had known quite what to do with. “I don’t fancy waiting around much longer and my imagination is a bit too vivid to be remotely comforting. So, please.”

Well, he might as well get straight to the fucking point. “I’m getting married. Will you be my witness?”

Ada stared at him, kept staring and staring until Tommy cleared his throat.

“We’re eloping,” he added, though by the way she continued to gape at him, the extra information did not seem to help.

She contemplated this revelation for almost a full minute, before saying, slowly, “You’re getting married.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who is it? And you’re eloping? Why? Whoever it is, I’m—I’m happy for you, I am, but God, I have so many fucking questions I don’t know where to begin, Tommy.”

“I’ll answer whatever questions you have later. Now, tell me—yes or no?”

* * *

“I fucking hate suits. And ties,” Alfie said. “I don’t know how the fuck you do it, Tommy.” Alfie tugged at his bow tie with the sort of irritation he probably ought to keep at bay, considering it was, after all, the day of their elopement ceremony.

Then again, it was precisely because of this mild annoyance that reassured Tommy he was indeed marrying Alfie Solomons in less than an hour. Even now, it hardly seemed real. But it was. It fucking _was._ Ada’s presence along with Ollie’s—as their witnesses—were all but proof that this was all very, very real.

“Not long to go now,” Tommy said as he stubbed out his cigarette. “After this is over, you can strip. I may also help with that.”

“I’ll hold you to your word, mate. I fucking will.”

“Good. I’m counting on it.”

The orange-purple light of dusk spilled across the sky in a gradient. The Margate breeze was quiet, and there wasn’t a single person here that wasn’t meant to be because they had reserved the entire fucking beach for this.

In other words, it was already perfect and they hadn’t even said their vows.

At the end of the pier, there was but the ocean before them. The ocean, the sunset, the salt air. And Alfie. If Tommy closed his eyes, there would be nothing more in his imagination because this—this sheer reality was as good as it could get, and it was better than anything he could’ve fucking dreamt up.

It was time for Tommy’s vows.

Of course, it was apparently also the time for his hands to start shaking like they hadn’t gotten the fucking memo that he was about to get married and this was _not_ the moment for such bullshit.

“Hey, hey...Tommy,” Alfie said quietly, his hands closing around Tommy’s, gentle but firm. “Look at me. You can do this. I love you.” His voice faded to a near whisper at the end, followed by a cheeky wink.

Tommy swallowed. He could barely hear anything above his frantic heartbeat, but—yes, he could do this; he’d memorised his vows and recited them a thousand times by now. He could do this. So he gave Alfie a small nod, and Alfie withdrew his hands, granting Tommy a smile that verged on a grin.

Tommy cleared his throat a little. “When we had first met, I never thought I’d see this day, yet here we are.” His voice betrayed none of his panic, and wasn’t that a bloody relief. “Let it be known I wouldn’t be here today without you, Alfie, because my life was at its lowest after—after Grace, but you were here and have always been. Till death do us part, perhaps not even then.” He slipped the ring onto Alfie’s finger, the silver band catching the waning sunlight for an instant.

Alfie was grinning now, looking all too fucking _happy_ that Tommy could hardly believe he was the cause of it.

Before long, it was Alfie’s turn and Tommy had no bloody idea what to expect.

“Tommy, Tommy...where the fuck do I even start?” Alfie said, and Tommy could feel his own brows lift in question, though in a _good_ way. Alfie continued, “You are, without a doubt, the worst and best thing that’s happened to me; the worst because since the day I met you, right, I couldn’t stop fucking thinking about you and wished to fucking hell I could; and the best, because I _still_ can’t stop thinking about you, but the difference is now I don’t want to ever stop.”

Leave it to Alfie to say so much and nothing at once, and Tommy loved him for it. God, he loved him.

Alfie wasn’t finished. “You are like no one else I’ve ever met. Actually, you there,” he said, turning to the officiant, “have you seen anyone else as fucking beautiful as this man? No? Correct.” Alfie turned back to Tommy, and Tommy wished they could just fall into a hole now and never see the light of day again because—the _embarrassment_. “At the risk of sounding like the world’s greatest cliche—but I don’t give a fuck—I could get lost in those eyes, could kiss that mouth forever, could fuck this perfect arse as many times—”

“Alfie, just...just stop,” Tommy said, almost a little sharply, because Alfie was beaming so unabashedly and Tommy didn’t _want_ to relent to his mischief. “I understand.”

“But how else is this man here—” he gestured to the officiant before him “—supposed to know how much I love you?” Alfie said, and Tommy wanted to wipe the smirk off his mouth with a kiss if only to shut him up.

“He knows,” Tommy said. “Now, just give me the ring, Alfie.”

So Alfie did, still grinning shamelessly. Was this man even real?

After the exchange of rings, the officiant said, albeit with a bit of hesitation after Alfie’s fucking spectacle, “I now pronounce you married.”

Alfie barely waited for the officiant to finish his sentence before he kissed Tommy on the mouth.

“You are ridiculous,” Tommy mumbled against the corner of Alfie’s lips.

“Ridiculous and proudly so.” Alfie pulled away with a smirk. Lowering his voice, he said, “Can we fuck off now? I wasn’t joking when I said I hated this bloody suit.”

So, fucked off they did. As a married couple.


	3. Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie's honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like I just can't stay away.
> 
> Have another little chapter. I'll still keep this marked as complete, because I have no idea if I'll write more xD Enjoy!

The breeze of Saint Lucia was cool against Tommy’s skin, made cooler by the mint shaving cream that Alfie had just spread across his stubble.

Tommy squinted against the mid-morning sun; in the absence of clouds the light was rather harsh. Perhaps agreeing to let his newlywed husband shave him on the ocean-front balcony was a mistake...

The straight razor glinted in the sunlight as Alfie said, “Tell me, did you use this blade, the one right here—” he waved it around heedlessly, inches from Tommy’s face “—to cut a poor bloke’s throat, just like how I could so easily do right now?”

Tommy’s gaze wandered from the beach—one that made Margate look putrid in comparison—to Alfie’s searching eyes. “Get on with it,” Tommy said, “or we’ll be late for the cruise.”

Alfie scoffed. “No fucking sense of self-preservation, this one.” He held the blade with just the right pressure and angle as he started a path along Tommy’s cheek, which frankly was surprising, for Alfie looked as though he hadn’t used a shaving razor since he could grow a beard, at least not for its intended function—for more lethal ones, on the other hand...

As Alfie worked, Tommy put a hand on Alfie’s leg, which was but naked under the half-done robe he was wearing. Slowly, Tommy slid his hand along Alfie’s thigh until Alfie paused. “You want me to fucking cut you, is that it, mate?”

Tommy shrugged. “Living life on the edge,” he said, watching Alfie’s mouth quirk up at his choice of words. Tommy inched his palm further up Alfie’s thigh until his fingers almost brushed his stirring cock.

“You little fuck." Despite his words, Alfie allowed Tommy’s hand to remain as he continued to shave him.

* * *

Tommy and Alfie were indeed late for the cruise, but there were few problems in the world money couldn’t solve, so they chartered a yacht on the spot for their journey to Saint Vincent and the Grenadines.

On the deck of the boat, underneath the shade, Alfie had his mouth around Tommy’s cock as the yacht rocked gently to the waves.

“Can’t get done for public indecency in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, can we now?” Alfie had said as he unzipped Tommy’s pants a few minutes prior.

Tommy was hardly about to argue with that; thus, he had left Alfie to his devices, which meant getting his dick sucked on a gratuitously luxurious boat with no one and nothing around them but the Caribbean Sea.

So Tommy closed his eyes and lounged back against the chair. He listened to the waves, to the seagulls flying overhead, to the wet, sloppy noises of Alfie’s mouth as he worked his way along Tommy’s cock— _fuck_ , he was good.

Apropos of nothing, Alfie slowed his pace until Tommy could barely tell he was moving at all.

“Alfie.” It took all of Tommy’s self-control and more to keep himself from thrusting into Alfie’s throat. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“Why?” The word sounded ridiculous coming from Alfie’s mouth when it was still on Tommy’s cock. Alfie pulled away with a wet popping sound. “I like you this way, don’t I. So fucking pretty, all bothered and on the edge of fucking heaven. I want to savour it. Savour you.”

Tommy sucked in a deep breath, trying not to feel completely foolish as his dick begged for more than what Alfie was giving him because he _wanted everything_ right now God damn it. “All right, taking your fucking time with it then—” his brain stuttered as Alfie was on him again, his mouth a warm, torrid chasm of all things unreal.

Alfie worked slowly and steadily, watching Tommy with those relentless blue-grey eyes. It wasn’t long before Tommy came into his throat, and for a moment there was nothing but pure, pure fucking bliss. Alfie swallowed his come obligingly—far from obliging, in fact, because Alfie looked like there was nothing else he’d rather do than take Tommy to the precipice and taste every inch of his being over and over again—

God, if Alfie wasn’t his greatest blessing then Tommy didn’t know what the fuck would be.


	4. Camping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie go camping in the Estonian wilderness, as a break from their chaotic (and very married) lives in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy one!

The air was cold, the rain had been falling for almost an hour—not too heavily, but enough to be bloody annoying and drive the autumn chill deep into Alfie’s bones—and the fact that Alfie hadn’t properly broken in his new hiking boots was becoming more apparent with every fifty steps.

Basically, he hated Estonia and the place hated him too, which was a shame, because even in his souring mood he could freely acknowledge the beauty of such untainted nature—lush mountains and green forests that extended beyond the horizon and the ethereal stillness of the late-afternoon air, caressing his face with the softness of freshly-spun silk.

If only it weren’t so bloody cold and wet. If only his boots weren’t gradually transforming into a medieval torture device.

“We’re almost there,” Tommy said from some paces in front of him, with a map and compass and fuck knows what else people used to navigate the gentile wilderness.

“Good,” Alfie said, “because at this rate, right, I’m never gonna take another fucking step for the next week or so.”

Tommy paused, glancing over his shoulder, and walked back to Alfie. His cheeks were flushed, either from the cold, the exertion, or both. That, along with his lips slightly parted, hot breaths coming in small mists, he looked so fucking lovely. “Want to stop for a bit?”

Alfie snorted. “If we do, I may never get up again and I can’t imagine, yeah, that you’d love the idea of dragging me along the rest of the way.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Tommy smirked, and gave Alfie a quick peck on the lips. “Sorry, I should’ve prepared you better for this.”

“Nah, mate. My fault for underestimating the force of nature, isn’t it? Anyway, if nothing else it’s a decent break from the clusterfuck that is London and bookmaking and the side-hustle of threatening people.”

Tommy smiled at that, one corner of his mouth lifting a little higher than the other. For a moment, Alfie forgot about his present nuisances as he brought their lips together. They kissed languidly, leaning into the comfort of each other’s touch, basked in the crisp air with the waning afternoon behind them. It was so fucking romantic that Alfie would almost be embarrassed if there was another soul within a five-mile radius, but there wasn’t, so it was perfect.

Alfie didn’t know how long they remained so, but eventually Tommy pulled away and said, “Getting dark. We should keep going.”

Tommy started to turn away, but Alfie grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him towards him, planted another kiss on his mouth. “But I want to keep kissing you,” Alfie mumbled. “It’s the only thing keeping me going, it really is.”

“Alfie,” Tommy said, palm on his chest as he held him off, “we don’t want to be out here after dark. Believe me.”

Alfie sighed.

Fuck the Baltics and their beautiful and relentless nature.

* * *

By the time they arrived at the campsite, dusk was in full swing, colouring the landscape in purple and orange and blue.

They’d emerged from the forest into a clearing, and beyond it was a lake so still it reflected the world with the accuracy of a mirror. The only sound around them was the crunching of dead leaves and branches beneath their boots, and the rustling and chirping of birds quite exotic that Alfie wouldn’t be surprised to learn they’d somehow risen from a birdwatcher’s wet dream.

In short, the place was _almost_ worth the pain and cold and all the other inconveniences that had added up throughout the day.

They set up camp without further ado. Tommy took the lead in this procession, especially when they had to fiddle with the contraption that was to be their tent. Must be in his Gypsy blood, his affinity with the wilderness; he wore it like a second skin that Alfie hadn’t truly witnessed in their marriage—and before it—until this trip.

Tommy prepared the campfire while Alfie laid out their belongings inside the tent. The sleeping bag—one designed for two adults because Tommy was a clingy little shit—was soft and thick and heavenly; Alfie was tempted to just burrow into it and sleep the night away until the exhaustion faded to a memory, but he was also hungry, so there was that.

When Alfie left the tent, he saw that Tommy was boiling water over the fire like a true caveman. After the water was ready, Tommy used it to cook some soup out of the dehydrated packs of ingredients they’d brought along. Sitting a safe distance from the fire, Alfie watched in silence, and at one point he found himself wondering if this was all some curious dream.

Darkness had fallen, and the clearing was lit only by the flames and the silvery light of the moon. The soup was frankly disgusting, but it was warm, and Tommy had cooked it, so Alfie was going to shut the fuck up.

They put out the fire after dinner, which meant the coldness made itself known _instantly_ , so they crawled into the tent.

“How are your feet?” Tommy asked as he slipped on a fresh shirt.

Fucking awful. “I’ll live, mate. But I really, really would not mind the idea of taking it easy tomorrow,” Alfie said as Tommy shrugged on three jumpers—at this point he was looking more like a fucking human-shaped pillow with all the layers. How had he fit all of these in his backpack anyway?

Tommy pulled out a first-aid kit from his bag and grabbed Alfie’s ankle without warning. Alfie muttered an “Oi!” but Tommy’s grip was ironclad and it’d take more effort than it was worth to protest further. So they sat in peaceful silence as Tommy patched up Alfie’s sorry feet while quietly chastising Alfie about being lazy as all hell in breaking in his boots.

* * *

The night was young, but they were exhausted, so bedtime it was.

They’d turned off the portable lamp, shuffled into the sleeping bag, and it was too bloody quiet everywhere.

“I fucking swear, Tom,” Alfie said into the dark, “if we wake up to witches about to sacrifice us to their pagan gods, I’m never going camping again. You hear me?”

Tommy gave a small laugh, the sound low and rough in his throat. “I hear you.”

Somewhere along the way, he had inched closer to Alfie, clung to his heat to the point where they might as well be fused, and Alfie almost wanted to remind him that their sleeping bag in fact could accommodate two fully grown men.

But Alfie only said, “Goodnight, petal.”

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just say I totally relate to Alfie in this situation, in terms of his unfamiliarity with the wilderness and camping in general xD


	5. House-warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie redefines the term 'house-warming party'.

There wasn’t anything Alfie could do that would surprise Tommy anymore; thus, when Tommy found a crudely drawn floor plan of their new house stuck to the fridge a day after moving in, he was not surprised.

Surprised, no.

Confused, yes.

“What’s this?” Tommy asked when Alfie returned home in the evening.

Alfie simply smirked as he walked to the fridge—almost tripping over one of the many unpacked boxes in the process—and scribbled above the drawing: _HOUSE-WARMING._

Then, he numbered each area of on the floor plan starting from one.

The kitchen was first.

The numbers didn’t make a lot of sense right now, but Tommy couldn’t bring himself to give a shit, because all he could think of was the loud and ugly scribble that spelled his worst nightmare.

(Worst nightmare was an exaggeration, rather; still, he didn’t want to throw a fucking party. Not in _their_ house, two days in, or two months, or two bloody years, social niceties be damned.)

“You want to throw a house-warming party,” Tommy said. “Why?”

Alfie set the pen down. “Tommy, Tommy, how’s it that you’ve taken my cock up your arse, in your mouth, and swallowed my come—for fucking _years_ now, yet you remain so bloody unimaginative?” He frowned at Tommy in a way that suggested he was far more amused than anything else. “Surely some of my brilliance, right, even just a smidge, has got to have rubbed off on you.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, Alfie.” Tommy pulled out a beer from the fridge and popped the lid off with his key. “I don’t want a party. We’ve talked about this. If Polly, Ada, Ollie or whoever has something to say about this, they can get fucked.” He took a swig of the drink; it fizzed pleasantly down his throat, a welcome chill on the tepid summer evening.

Alfie plucked the bottle out of his hand, for which Tommy glared at him and tried to snatch it back, but Alfie pinned him against the fridge with a sly little smile. “Who said anything about anyone else, hmm?” He buried his face into the curve of Tommy’s neck and dragged his mouth across his jaw. Alfie’s beard scratched against his cheek roughly, and truth be told it did feel a little uncomfortable, the scraping and dragging, but it was the sort of discomfort—this burn along his skin—that sent his cock stirring a a little.

A little masochistic, one might say, but hell did it feel great; Tommy would never be tired of this—fuck, he would never be _used_ to this.

(If Alfie ever took a liking to a razor one day, Tommy would make sure to hide every one of it. Might tuck one up his arse, even, if it meant Alfie would keep his scruff.)

Tommy forgot about their prior discussion entirely when Alfie sank to his knees and took Tommy’s cock into his mouth. But, ah—it felt almost too smooth now, the wet, hot chasm. Needed a little more—friction. Yes. Biting back a gasp, Tommy patted Alfie on the cheek, ran his fingers through Alfie’s beard and said, shamelessly, “This, on me.”

“Such a little slut you are,” Alfie said, grinning, and obliged.

And so Tommy fucked Alfie’s face like this, his dick against the coarse beard—Christ, it burned in the best way, fucking hell it did, and when Alfie licked along the length of his cock, the wetness of his tongue soothed the burn and Tommy staggered from the pleasure, knees buckling as he choked out a gasp. Alfie held him still by the hips, hands digging into his bones hard, and sucked Tommy’s cock, fast and greedy and filthy until Tommy came into his mouth.

Alfie gave his softening dick one last lick, slow and generous, before rising to his feet. He planted a sloppy kiss on Tommy’s lips, breathing in his spent exhales, and said, “Good boy." He nudged Tommy away from the fridge.

With his pen, Alfie marked a big, messy tick on the floor plan, right where the kitchen was.

Number one, done and dusted.

Plenty more to go.

Tommy decided he liked house-warming parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something about that beard...


	6. Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy bakes.

Let it be known Alfie had not married Tommy Shelby for his culinary skills.

That wasn't to say Alfie was a master in the kitchen either; far from it, rather, yet compared to Tommy, it was a long-established tradition that Alfie would do the cooking if there was any need for such an endeavour—a prime example being occasions when Tommy's family invited themselves over for a meal, which frankly happened more often than either Alfie or Tommy would prefer.

Nonetheless, a family man Tommy was, and Alfie meant that as a term of endearment.

On this particular day, however, no extended Shelbys had invited themselves over; yet Alfie found Tommy in the kitchen when he returned home that afternoon, poring over a recipe with a blue apron cinched at the waist, a bit of dough smeared on his cheek, looking more like a trophy house-husband rather than the cutthroat gangster that he is.

Tommy glanced up at Alfie's arrival, tossed him a little smile and returned to his recipe.

Leaning over the benchtop, Alfie asked, “Do I even want to know what you’re up to?”

Tommy picked up the mixing spoon and continued to stir what looked like the baking mixture. “It’s obvious what I’m up to, Alfie.”

“Yeah well, it would be, wouldn’t it, except I don’t recall seeing you cook—or bake—of your own volition. So yes, there’s reason to question.”

Tommy didn’t look at him and kept working, but his mouth curled up into a lazy smirk. Alfie reached across the benchtop and rubbed his thumb over Tommy’s cheek. Not to wipe away the biscuit dough, but to smear it further along his face.

“Need help?” Alfie asked, grinning.

Tommy swiped the back of his hand across his cheek, scowling lightly, and said, “That’s enough of your help. Go away.” He opened a bag of chocolate chips and poured it into the mix. “You’ll know when I’m done.”

“When I smell the smoke from the kitchen fire, you mean?”

“If that’s what it takes to bake some fucking biscuits, yes.”

Alfie didn’t doubt the sincerity of those words. After washing his hands at the sink, he joined Tommy in his task of rolling clumps of dough into balls and pressing them onto the baking tray.

Tommy cast him a side glance. “You don’t have to.”

“There’s something you should know, Tom. I haven’t done anything I don’t want to in years.”

“All right then.” Tommy set another ball of dough onto the tray. “That one’s too big,” he added when Alfie placed his first one next the ball Tommy had just set down.

“How else would we identify who made what? Mine will be the bigger ones, and we know, don’t we, that big fucks small?”

Tommy did not look amused. “We’re talking about biscuits, Alfie.”

“Point remains.”

“It doesn’t.”

Alfie flicked a little dough ball at Tommy. It hit him on the chin and fell down his shirt. Scowling, Tommy wiped his hands clean, dragged Alfie away from the kitchen and sat him down on the couch of their living room. “Don’t you fucking move,” Tommy said, and went back to the benchtop.

By the time Tommy joined him on the couch, the biscuits were in the oven.

The kitchen did not burn down, thankfully. The biscuits, however, came out half-burnt.

But everyone had to start somewhere.

(Tommy and Alfie had burnt biscuits for dinner.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew the art before I wrote this ficlet, so the vibe is somewhat different xD Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the writing and the drawing!!


	7. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie sleeps in on a Saturday, against tradition.

Alfie woke up early on the weekends. This, Tommy hadn’t expected; the image he had of Alfie, prior to saying their vows, was one of a man who liked to laze in bed on Saturday mornings until the sun was past its highest point in the sky, and perhaps a little bit more.

Tommy had been looking forward to this—cuddling on their days off. It would’ve been a welcome respite from the chaos of their lives that was every other day. Yes, it would’ve been...

That was until the first weekend of their marriage when Tommy had learned that Alfie was _the_ embodiment of an early riser.

To meditate, Alfie had said when Tommy asked what the fuck he was doing, rising with the sun on a Saturday. Alfie had invited Tommy to join but, well, that was a habit Tommy had not been ready to pick up. Still wasn’t.

Which was why it was ever strange—fucking bizarre, actually, when Tommy opened his eyes to the late-morning light and found Alfie dozing beside him, still completely out to the world.

Surprised—both pleasantly and with concern—Tommy studied his sleeping face. Before he could lose himself in its whimsicality, he noticed the flush on Alfie’s cheeks. Tentatively, Tommy touched Alfie’s forehead with the back of his hand.

Warm.

Warmer than Alfie should be, anyway.

“Hey,” Tommy said softly, nudging him on the shoulder. “Are you alive?”

Tommy nudged him once more and Alfie grumbled incoherently before turning away from Tommy. Testing his luck, Tommy inched closer to Alfie until he was pressed up against his back, an arm slung around his waist. Tommy rested his cheek against Alfie’s shoulder blade, feels the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

And it was—it was _nice,_ really. Or it would’ve been, if Alfie wasn’t so goddamned warm that Tommy found himself overheating within five minutes.

Sighing, Tommy pulled away. No cuddling, it seemed.

With that established, Tommy dragged himself out of bed and began his day.

A cup of tea, some biscuits, and the news. A usual Saturday it would be, except Alfie still wasn’t up by lunch time; thus, Tommy checked on him again, and he found Alfie with the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin as he laid in bed. Alfie was awake—this much Tommy could tell, from the way his brows were slightly pulled together and his mouth pressed into a line.

“Alfie?”

“What?” he muttered from the bed.

“It’s past twelve.”

“It’s the fucking weekend, Tommy.”

Tommy felt a brow raise at Alfie’s response. Without another word, Tommy padded towards the bed and tested Alfie’s temperature. “You’re sick,” Tommy said.

Alfie swatted his hand away gently and pulled the blanket over his head. “How astute of you.” His voice was muffled through the layers.

Sighing, Tommy left the bedroom, and returned with a glass of water, some ibuprofen and the ice pack from the freezer. Alfie hadn’t moved an inch in his absence, and he reluctantly drank the glass of water and took the medication that Tommy had brought him.

Alfie scowled at the ice pack in Tommy’s hand. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck no.”

“Alfie.”

“...Fine.”

Tommy placed the pack on Alfie’s forehead after he’d laid back down, and smirked at the sigh of relief from Alfie.

“Better?”

“Mmm. Now, Tom, won’t you kindly piss off and let me wallow in this misery alone.”

Ignoring Alfie’s mild protest, Tommy climbed into bed beside him and watched Alfie in silence.

“The fuck are you looking at?”

“Fine, I’ll leave.”

Alfie grabbed his hand. “Wait.” His frown deepened as if it pained him to admit the following: “Stay. Please.”

So, Tommy did. And they remained so for a while; with Tommy holding his hand and Alfie nursing his fever with the cold pack on his forehead in the muted afternoon light until Alfie said—“I feel like shit. Save me, Tom.”

“Drama queen.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Alfie’s mouth.

“Great. Tomorrow we’ll both be fucked, wouldn’t we. Who’s gonna fetch me my water then, hmm, Tommy?”

“We could take turns.”

“Or hire an in-house nurse?”

“Again—drama queen, Alfie.”

“Mhmm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These days I write domestic bliss so I have an excuse to draw domestic bliss (Not that I need an excuse to do so, but it's more fun this way :P).


	8. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie hides Tommy's cigarettes.

It didn’t take long for the smell of Tommy’s cigarettes to permeate every surface of their house.

As much as Alfie appreciated the sight of Tommy smoking—the way light bounced off of his cheekbones like it would a knife’s edge with each inhale, the way his fingers balanced the cigarette, the way Tommy would get in the mood for a good fuck after an especially therapeutic session—Alfie did not, frankly, appreciate its lingering stench that had become well-entrenched in their married lives.

Not to mention its tendency to cause lung cancer. Then again, both Alfie and Tommy would happily admit they’d lived well past their life expectancies, given their line of work; death by cancer was the least of their concerns right about now.

Still, the smoke fucking stank.

So, after a Friday afternoon nap when Tommy was still passed out to the world, Alfie pried himself out of Tommy’s clinging arms and hid his box of cigarettes—along with the rest of the carton—under their bed.

A god-awful hiding spot, of course, but with Tommy being the overthinking fucker he was, it’d be the last place he would look. 

Alfie went about his afternoon until half an hour later, when Tommy emerged from their bedroom, looking cranky as all hell.

“Rose from the wrong side of the bed, did we now?” Alfie asked, grinning.

“I’ll be back in fifteen,” was all Tommy said before he left the house.

* * *

True to his words, Tommy returned fifteen minutes later with a new carton of cigarettes.

The next morning, when Tommy was still asleep, Alfie hid these away, too.

* * *

“You’re stealing my cigarettes,” Tommy said to Alfie with no shred of amusement. “Why?”

Alfie glanced up at Tom from his book. “That’s a grave accusation if I do say so. I’m terribly hurt, petal.”

“Well, it’s not fucking Cyril.”

“He could’ve eaten them. Wouldn’t be a shock, would it? Look at the size of that dog, mate.”

Tommy looked about ready to kill him—which, honestly, Alfie would be fine with if the need ever arose. “I’m serious,” Tommy said, sounding very serious indeed. When Alfie simply grinned at him, Tommy huffed and muttered something about hiding spots, before he took off looking for his smokes.

Twenty minutes later, after Tommy flipped their house on its side, he returned to Alfie in the living room and dumped the boxes on the table before him.

“Took you this long to find something under the bed,” Alfie said, smiling brazenly at Tommy’s glare. “A fucking embarrassment, wouldn’t you say, love?”

“Shut up. What the hell was that, Alfie?”

He cleared his throat and said, slowly, “That was, right, that was the act of desperation of a very desperate man who wished to live in his home for a day without being gassed.”

Tommy raised a brow at him.

“Your cigarettes are stinking up the place, mate.”

Tommy’s frown softened. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Seems much more efficient to _say_ the words, Alfie.”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?”

“Guest room,” Tommy said, apropos of nothing.

“What the fuck?”

Tommy cleared his throat. “Guest room. Designated indoor smoking area. Our non-existent house guests wouldn’t bloody care, would they?”

Shrugging, Alfie said, “Fine by me.” He took a cigarette out of a box from the table. “Also, I never said anything about not smoking anywhere else, did I now?”

“Get to the point, Alfie.”

After lighting up the cigarette, he took a puff from it and said, “Come and get it.” His words mixed with the smoke, spilling across the air between them.

Tommy reached for the cigarette, but Alfie held it out of reach and drew another inhale from it. Alfie pulled Tommy towards him, fingers closing around his jaw, and sealed their mouths together firmly. Tommy, the fucking addict that he was, stole Alfie’s breath, greedy and eager, like he would—could never get enough.

The same air passed from lungs to lungs until Alfie took another drag, both of them lightheaded from it all.

They smoked the first half of the cigarette like this; the second half was forgotten, left smouldering on the hardwood floor, as they fucked on the coffee table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, yes, I'll never get tired of drawing (and writing) these two.
> 
> (This chapter was primarily an excuse for me to write Alfie stealing Tommy's cigarettes and making Tommy smoke from him. Nonetheless, hope you found it fun!)


	9. Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is insecure about his new glasses. Alfie helps him out.

Alfie knew there was something wrong when Tommy missed the left turn that would take them to their business meeting, because it was the third time this week that Tommy couldn’t read the bloody road sign when it was right in front of him.

“Mate, if you keep this up, right, you’re gonna lose us our business partners by being an hour late to every fucking meeting,” Alfie was telling him.

“Shut up,” Tommy said, squinting a little at the road before him as he searched for the closest detour.

“Who made you the designated driver, anyway?”

“Your terrible driving did, Alfie.” Tommy was still peering at the road above his steering wheel.

The indicators were obvious enough, upon closer observation. Missing turns, squinting at road signs, blind as a fucking bat by the looks of it.

“Tommy, love, you need glasses.”

Tom didn’t miss a beat as he said, “No, I don’t.”

“Of course you don’t,” Alfie said, humouring him. For now.

Tommy took yet another wrong turn.

* * *

Later that night, when Tommy was all but panting before Alfie, splayed wide on their bed and sky-eyes glazed with want, Alfie withdrew his mouth from Tommy’s cock and said, “I know a guy.”

“The fuck?” The question came out in a half gasp.

“I said, I know a guy.”

“I heard you,” Tommy said, “now, get on with it. Please.”

Alfie made a point of _not_ sucking Tommy’s dick and sat up on the bed. “This guy, yeah, he makes glasses so good you can see the future, Tommy.”

“The future,” Tommy began through gritted teeth, “is about to get very fucking ugly if you don’t put your mouth back on me right now.”

Smirking, Alfie descended on him until his lips hovered just above Tommy’s cock. “You’ll make an appointment first thing tomorrow morning, won’t you? To get your eyes checked.”

“For fuck’s sake, yes. Yes, I will,” Tommy said, looking like he was about to backhand Alfie in the best way, “but there’s something I want in return.”

“What, like me sucking your cock on a Tuesday night is not enough?”

“I’ll come on your face. And you will not clean it until the next morning,” Tommy said.

Leave it to Thomas bloody Shelby to make such a demand while in a position so fucking compromised.

Then again, Alfie hadn’t married him for anything less.

“Deal,” Alfie promised.

* * *

Tommy tried to insist on going to the optometrist by himself, but Alfie was not about to let slip this opportunity to see Tommy squirm at his ego being threatened by Dr Sampson declaring that his eyesight was less than perfect.

Alfie was in the waiting hall, mindlessly flipping through a magazine when Tommy walked out of the examination room with Sampson.

“Well?” Alfie asked, trying to keep some of his smugness at bay.

Tommy gave him a flat stare, ignored his question, and walked to the counter with Sampson to discuss his prescription. Before long, Tommy was browsing the collection of frames, and Alfie hovered beside him, silent for once, until Alfie picked out some round, gold-trimmed glasses that would look positively endearing on Tommy.

“No,” Tommy said immediately when Alfie presented them.

“I’d let you come on my face every night, I would,” Alfie said.

“...Fine.”

* * *

Alfie quickly learned that Tommy’s vanity was, well, vainer than he’d thought.

Vain to the point of denying himself some much-needed visual clarity, for the sake of keeping his stupid pretty face _pretty_ and free of glasses, as though these two things were mutually exclusive. Which they were not, in Alfie’s rightful opinion.

“You would rather be a hazard on the road than have some nice, dainty glasses perched on your nose?”

Tommy shrugged, turning left onto the road that led home. “It feels weird. Looks weird.”

“Listen. I will say this however many times you need to hear it, won’t I now,” Alfie said from the passenger seat. “You can wear a paper bag on your head and still be gorgeous.”

Tommy’s lips quirked into a little smile.

But he still refused to wear his glasses.

* * *

Even Tommy Shelby was not immune to the effects of positive reinforcement, it seemed, because the next time they fucked, Alfie ensured that Tommy wore his goddamned glasses, made fucking _sure_ that Tommy had them on when Alfie gave him the best blowjob of his life. Let Tommy come all over his face. Made Tommy watch with his glasses on as Alfie smeared the come across his own face with his fingers before licking those fingers, one by one.

Tommy watched every second of it, watched it with the greed and thirst of a little slut. With those glasses on.

Like training a little puppy, it was.

Reward good behaviour with treats. Reward wearing glasses with earth-shattering orgasms and husband-pornography.

A week later, Tommy started wearing his glasses full-time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually one of my favourite chapters to write so far xD the premise amuses me so much.
> 
> **Update: I've decided to end the series here, so this is the last entry. I've had my fun in this 'verse! Hope you've enjoyed their adventures!**

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [@strawberriez8800x](https://strawberriez8800x.tumblr.com/)


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